I thought things with Bachelor #3 were done. Over the weekend I got another apology, minus an explanation, plus the whole, “I want to be friends more than anything” speech.
Eye-roll. I could have responded in one of three ways:
1 – Completely ignore him
2 – Tell him to go fuck himself
3- Agree to be friends because guys never mean it anyway and who cares
I stupidly chose option 3. Apparently he was serious, and told me he was going to pick me up on Sunday morning and we were going to go watch football.
Everything was fine, except he picked up the tab, which does not align with being friends. And we had a blast – at least I did, who knows what he was thinking. He even threatened to buy me a Maurice Clarett jersey for Christmas as part of his imposed therapy and insistence that I get over the end result of the 2003 Fiesta Bowl (that was not FUCKING pass interference!!).
(Side note: I’ve finally figured out how to tell if you’re on a date in Southern California, and that is whether or not they walk you to your car. If they do, it’s a date, if they leave you to fend for yourself in an eight story parking garage – probably not.)
Anyway. So it’s fine, I am thinking okay, we’ll be friends, because I’m still new here and he’s fun, and I don’t want to give up fun even though the pendulum of “fucked up” has already swung back and forth numerous times between “awww” and “run for your life” in the precisely three weeks that I have known him.
But Monday when I asked him if I could buy him drinks later this week because he’s paid for everything else, I get a text back saying he needs me to know that he’s a dick when it comes to dating (pause for reaction)…
…and that he sees the way I look at him when we kiss and he doesn’t want to hurt me.
First of all: SO MUCH CONDESCENSION.
Second of all: That ship has already sailed far far away after our third date.
Third of all: You have paid for everything we’ve done so far including when you just wanted to be “friends” (pause to look up definition)…
…Then I offer to buy you some drinks and maybe throw in some baseball and all of a sudden the way I looked at you when you last kissed me over a week ago is now a problem?
To make matters worse, I got a barrage of OKCupid messages on Sunday night in a play I like to call the End of Weekend Blues. The candidates were as follows:
One guy listed on his profile weed as one of the six things he can’t live without and that the first thing people usually notice about him is how he gets down (??). One guy was 51. Automatic no. One guy could not get his subject/verb agreement right (You meet Jay Cutler), and one couldn’t form a complete sentence: “Good morning miss looking gorgeous and oh yeah Ohio not a real state ;)”.
So is it any wonder I want to continue to hang out with Hottie McHott even though he’s kind of a prick? When he’s not being a prick, he’s fun. I know, I know, I’ve learned nothing. I try, and this is what happens:
